The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  I hear a knock and it’s Jeremy. He’s twenty, fresh from university and doesn’t ever appear to give much thought to his classical good looks.

  ‘Just checking you’re OK. No one’s heard from you in yonks.’ He smiles.

  ‘I’m great.’

  ‘Good. What are you doing?’ He walks into the room and I shut my computer.

  ‘Nothing, just catching up on things.’ I’m desperately trying to forget the email I’ve just sent.

  ‘Come on, let’s go down and get some drinks.’ I start to shake my head but Jeremy holds up his hands. ‘No buts. We’ve all decided. You’ve been on your own up here long enough.’

  My shoulders sag in defeat. ‘OK,’ I say and, before I can think much further, I grab my torn, leather wallet and old silk shawl that I bought from a market in town, and we leave the room. There’s no phone signal downstairs in the bar and three times during the night I go back to the room to check my email. Nothing. Jeremy buys me shot after shot of tequila and I end up necking them all. My colleagues have never seen me take so much as a sip of wine and are all cheering me on. Jeremy spends the first half of the night laughing then looks worried. ‘Josephine,’ he says. ‘I think we’d better get you to bed.’

  ‘At least someone cares,’ I shout. Jeremy hauls me up to my room and I can hear Mia wolf-whistling.

  I turn to her. ‘Is this what you do to everyone when they first come out for drinks?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I think people were just surprised to see you out and wanted to . . .’

  I grab on to the dark wooden table. Mia puts her hand near my arm.

  ‘Wanted to what?’ Even through my drunken haze, I can hear my voice, sharp at the edges.

  ‘Nothing, nothing. We just wanted to have a good night out, that’s all.’ She takes a step back.

  ‘Come on,’ says Jeremy. He looks over at Mia. ‘You get back soon too, OK?’

  *  *  *

  It’s five in the morning when I wake up needing to be sick. I slide my palm across the other side of the bed. Empty. Thank God, I think. Toby and I have no set rules but the intern who is fifteen years my junior might have him riled. Other than that, I don’t remember much of the night beyond the look on Mia’s face when she saw Jeremy taking me upstairs. A few other flashes here and there – Mia and Jack dancing on the terrace and me smoking apple-flavoured shisha and drinking red. Red? After white and tequila? Why? I think, getting up to be sick. The only benefit is that I’m too ill to think about Freya for a whole day. I have a general sense of unease but it’s almost comforting. An antidote to the clear lines of her face that have come to taunt me almost every minute since her email arrived.

  ‘Fun last night.’ Mia winks at me when she turns up late to work. I’ve made sure I arrive before anyone else this morning. I don’t reply. Just carry on working. Sweating and working.

  My hangover is still with me the day Toby is due. I thank the sun for lifting the colour in my cheeks and, of course, duty-free mascara. I dab some three-year-old concealer under my eyes, pressing down the dusty lumps into my skin. It makes me look haggard so I rub it off with a piece of tissue. Freya still hasn’t replied. I will enjoy tonight with Toby, I think. I leave my mobile in the bedroom and hope that Toby will remember where I’ve told him to meet me. I slink down the stairs, feeling a strange combination of freshness and fatigue. I’m wearing his favourite outfit of mine: my pale-blue jeans, flip-flops and a plain white fitted T-shirt.

  ‘I love you in that,’ he had said the last time we met. ‘Plain. Shows off your beauty.’

  I had snorted when he told me that. It’s the only time I’ve ever heard him use the ‘L’ word. I’m wearing a tiny squirt of jasmine scent, and my hair is tied back. I cut a fringe a few months ago and the remnants of it still hang in my eyes. I sit and order two whiskies, one double for him and one single for me. I don’t know why – I hate whisky. I take a small sip. It’s seven forty-five before I begin to wonder if I should call in at the front desk and see if his plane was on time. I’ll give it another fifteen minutes. It’s now eight o’clock and I signal for the waiter, to come and bring me some more peanuts. He gives a little bow as I point to the china bowl. Jeremy, Jack and Mia are all on the other side of the bar, drinking what look like Margaritas. Jeremy keeps glancing over and I pretend to be watching the couple on the next table. Eight thirty. Eventually Jeremy walks over and asks if I’m alright.

  ‘I know you’re waiting for someone but wouldn’t you like to come and join us?’ His thumbs rest on the top of his jeans. ‘Come on?’

  I smile but it comes out as a wince. ‘Thanks so much. I’ll stay here. I’m enjoying the cool air. Thanks, though. We might come and see you later. Whenever he gets here.’ There, that’s subtly told him. He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘OK then. Well we’re just over here if you want us.’ He leaves.

  To hell with it. I order another whisky. I ask the waiter to take away Toby’s drink. I’m only halfway through my glass when I see him. He’s wearing thick, black, mud-covered boots. His jeans are all ruched up at the top where he’s pulled his belt tight and his black T-shirt is tucked in. His press pass is still around his neck, a plastic-encased picture, straight-faced and brown hair all dishevelled and he’s carrying the black holdall which I know will have the same few things inside: a notebook, a couple of pairs of boxer shorts, the same style of plain green toothbrush he always has, a copy of The Great Gatsby and his good luck charm – a small teddy bear given to him by an Iraqi orphan.

  ‘How typical,’ I always laugh when I pluck it out, although I am looking forward to its familiarity. And I’m about to tell him this despite him being so late, but, when he sits down, he looks worried. His unshaven look has pushed the boundaries of contrived reporter and grey flecks have started to appear. ‘Whisky.’ He points to my glass and mouths ‘another’ to the waiter, who scuttles off behind the bar.

  ‘J, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. I don’t mind at all. I knew you were coming.’ I cover my nerves with a false laugh.

  ‘No. Really. I’m sorry.’ He has his chin in his hands and he’s rubbing at an invisible speck on his left cheek.

  My stomach feels like it’s filling with helium. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m in trouble.’

  ‘In trouble? What do you mean?’ Images of Kalashnikovs, bombs, beheadings, threats flit through my brain. My muscles tighten. The fear defaults my mind to an image of Freya’s face.

  ‘I’m having a baby.’

  Absurdly, my first thought is to jump up and congratulate him.

  ‘A baby?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, J . . . I’m really sorry. She’s called Anna. I met her in Syria last year. We took the assignment in Iraq together. She’s a photographer.’

  I snort, despite myself.

  ‘I know, I know. Original.’ He slugs back his whisky and puts a hand over mine.

  ‘Don’t patronise me, you fucker,’ I say, but lightly. I can hear punctuated silences on Mia and Jeremy’s table as they flick interested glances over the rims of their drinks.

  ‘No. I’m sorry. I really am. I know you and I . . . it’s a strange relationship . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes I know. We aren’t together together.’

  ‘I know but that doesn’t make it acceptable. I should have told you. You deserve better than me.’

  How is this happening straight after Freya got in touch? Has she set off some weird chain of events? Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself. She doesn’t have that power over me. Oh but she does. Or rather, the memory of her does. And then I think of my mother, the flick of her cigarette lighter, the looseness of her stare.

  ‘What, you should have told me that you were shagging someone else? No need, darling.’ I try to keep the malice out of my voice. I want to throw my drink at him and scratch his eyes out. I start to feel choked.

  Toby draws himself closer to me, inspecting my face, my eyes, as if he�
�s really seeing me for the first time. ‘Josephine? Josephine? Are you OK? You’re shaking.’ He’s leaning towards me now, taking my hands. He flicks at the plaster on my palm. ‘What happened here?’

  ‘I’m cold. And nothing. Just a cut. Don’t try and distract me,’ I warn him.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  I think of her, all young, smooth and tanned. She’s probably model height, with no need to wear make-up, or wrinkle-reducing moisturiser. I think of how much time I’ve spent in the sun recently. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, I feel desperate to talk to Freya. She would have known what to do, I think. Pull it together, Josephine. Pull it together. You’re in danger of . . .

  ‘So how else was your time? Anything else interesting to tell me?’ I say.

  ‘J . . . Are you OK? You seem . . . You look thin as well. Really thin. Is there something else going on?’

  ‘Me? Yes of course I am. I mean, of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?’ I take his hand, imagine stabbing it with the little cocktail umbrella. ‘Don’t worry at all. We never promised we’d be faithful. We never even put a label on us. So of course it’s fine.’

  ‘OK.’ I take pleasure from the fact he looks hurt.

  ‘So go on then . . . Tell me more about your time away.’

  ‘Well . . . If you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  And for the next three hours he talks until the midnight breeze picks up and I’m rubbing down the hairs on my arms. I want to ask about the baby. I want to ask if he’s going to be in its life. I want to ask if he’s going to hold the little creature in his arms and give him or her his finger to suck on, if he’s going to change its nappies and love it and look at its little chest, billowing up and down. But I don’t. Instead I ask him about Kalashnikovs and bombs and beheadings and threats, and, all the while, I’m thinking about Freya and wishing I could confide in Toby about what has happened, ask him what I should do. That he could help me. But instead I know that when we go to bed that night we’ll talk about what we normally talk about: nothing. Undress, wash our faces, brush our teeth. He’ll comment on my T-shirt nightie and I’ll smile and he’ll run his hands up and down my body and give me that knowing gaze which makes me feel reassured but a bit queasy and I’ll let him turn me over and he’ll go for a good five minutes and I’ll make a few moans and groans and it’ll be just the same as it always is, except this time the emptiness will feel even more endless. Almost exquisitely so.

  1996

  ‘Upper Sixth Fallow girls, you’re all here, I think? Have a good exeat,’ Mrs Kitts says. We’re all lined up, shaking her hand before we go home for the weekend.

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘I’ll try and get some rest.’

  Mrs Kitts winks. ‘Make the most of Upper Sixth privileges. Are you getting the train?’ she says.

  ‘No, I’m going to Freya’s tonight for dinner, her dad’s coming to pick us up.’ Freya waits next to me, weekend bag in hand. We watch as parents come and pick up eager offspring. Kate Green’s mother wafts in all glamorous, greeting her daughter as though they’ve been parted for a decade. Freya looks worried, desperate to spare my feelings. ‘Ridiculous. So over the top,’ she says, squeezing my hand. I laugh, but can’t think how to respond.

  Rollo arrives two hours later, when all the other sixth-formers have left. He blames work but I’ve never known him – or Freya, for that matter – to be on time. When we finally get to London, after an hour-long drive, it’s already time to eat.

  ‘I’m making you a celebration dinner,’ he says. ‘Both of you. Head Girl and Prefect. Leon? Anything you have to celebrate with us?’

  ‘No, Dad.’ Leon, Freya’s brother, is sitting on the sofa, reading a magazine with a bikini-clad girl on the cover.

  ‘Any other news, girls?’ Rollo asks.

  ‘Josephine’s going to be a scholar soon too, aren’t you, J?’ Freya says.

  ‘Really, Josephine?’ says Rollo. ‘You didn’t tell us about this?’

  I glare at her. She knows how I hate talking about this sort of thing – as if there isn’t enough pressure. ‘There’s nothing to tell. Just that there’s the Anne Dunne Scholarship up for grabs soon. What about you, Freya? Wouldn’t you like to try for it?’

  There’s a warning tone to my voice that I try to dampen. It doesn’t work and Rollo looks up, frowning.

  ‘Yes, darling, what about you? Why hasn’t Mrs Allen put you up for it? What have you done wrong? That woman, always overlooking you. Do you want me to ring up the school?’

  ‘Well . . . nothing . . . I just . . . the names haven’t been announced yet.’ Freya looks at me confused, wanting help. I don’t give it to her, in the hope she’ll shut up about the damn scholarship.

  ‘Dinner time,’ says Rollo, and we all take our seats at the table.

  ‘Want some bread?’ Leon asks me.

  ‘Thanks.’ I take two slices and pass the basket to Rollo, who waves my hand away.

  ‘Trying to lose weight,’ he says, pulling back the red liquid from his wine glass. ‘So, Head Girl, eh? Have you told your father? And your mother? She gets out soon, doesn’t she?’ Rollo asks. The table goes silent and I don’t know how to respond.

  ‘I’ve told him. He seemed pleased. As for Mother . . . she’s fine. She’s coming home soon? How do you know? Did he tell you?’ I catch Rollo looking at Freya and she shrugs.

  ‘Your father –’

  ‘Because he didn’t tell me,’ I say.

  ‘Dad, pass the bread over,’ Freya says breaking the silence.

  ‘There’s none left. Sorry. Speaking of the devil, how is your father?’ he goes on.

  ‘Dad,’ warns Freya.

  ‘Sorry. Aren’t I allowed to enquire after my oldest friend? We keep missing each other.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I say. ‘He’s on good form. He’s been working hard. He flew off to South Africa last night.’ Rollo looks as though he wants to say something but doesn’t, just pushes a handful of crisps into the side of his mouth.

  ‘Want us to go and check on your mother?’ he says, when he’s finished eating. ‘Leon, you’ll be here, won’t you? I’m away for the Paris News Conference.’

  Freya’s brother pushes his hair back and nods his head. ‘Of course. Whatever you need me to do. She’s still . . . she’s still at . . .?’

  ‘No,’ I say, louder than intended. ‘No . . . I mean . . . yes she’s still there and no, please don’t go and see her. She’ll be fine.’ Rollo leans over, takes his napkin out of his collar and squeezes my shoulder. I want to throw his hand off.

  ‘Well, we’re going out tomorrow, Dad.’ Freya’s giving me that look – the one that says, it’s OK, I’ve got your back and I give her a small smile. ‘Just me and Josephine. Isn’t that right, J? It’s a celebration night out for us both. Oh yeah, and we’re staying at Josephine’s tomorrow by the way.’

  Rollo looks up from his soup.

  ‘Amy’s there, don’t worry,’ I say, referring to our long-standing housekeeper, who has taken to spending about ninety per cent of her time out of the house.

  ‘And where are you two going?’ Rollo says, staring at me.

  ‘We’re going to the cinema, followed by a . . . pub?’ I look at Freya. She’s widening her eyes, which I take as her signal that I’m saying the right things.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ she says. ‘We’re just going to the pub. You can’t stop us. We’re legally allowed. At least, nearly.’ Freya smirks at me. The bait’s worked.

  ‘You can go to the pub. I don’t mind. Just don’t . . .’

  ‘Yes, Dad, we know,’ replies Freya, tying her hair with a bobbled blue hair elastic into a knot on the top of her head. ‘Can I borrow some money please?’

  ‘Sure. How much do you need? Enough for a taxi back to J’s. J, do you need money too? Has your father left you any?’

  ‘I
’ve got some, thanks. He left me extra, since he’s away this weekend. Hey, want to join us tomorrow night?’ I ask Leon, who is threading his fingers through his hair. I feel bad for asking – it’s meant to be just me and Freya and I’m already thinking of my line of defence for later, but I look over and she’s smiling.

  ‘Thanks, but actually I’m going to a footy game in Manchester tomorrow. Would’ve done, though.’

  I feel hollowed out by this, so I smile as quickly as possible. ‘Great, who are you playing?’

  ‘Some douchebag team. West Ham.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  ‘Right. Ice cream anyone?’ Rollo leans back in his chair and opens the freezer behind him.

  ‘Dad. Tomato soup and ice cream? I thought we were going to have a special exeat supper,’ says Freya.

  ‘Well, you have another exeat this term. Oh and half-term as well, so I’ve got another two chances at pulling one out of the bag, haven’t I?’ The table goes silent. ‘Sorry, folks. Can’t quite seem to do it like your mother.’ And I see Rollo’s Adam’s apple retreating into his throat. ‘So, ice cream?’

  ‘Please,’ I say, skidding my bowl over to him. We never have such a thing as ice cream in our house – Father only instructs Amy to buy the basics – so I leap on it gratefully.

  ‘Right. Film, guys?’ Rollo rubs his hand together and picks up the ice cream.

  ‘Dad.’ Freya throws her hands up in the air. ‘No more. Come on. Look,’ she says, pointing at his stomach. ‘I mean what would Mum say?’

  ‘She would have laughed. Laughed at how you can’t even cook a meal without her,’ I say, looking at Freya. For one minute I think I’ve said the wrong thing. And after a few seconds Rollo shouts: ‘She would have found it hilarious. I mean look at me!’ Rollo grabs his stomach. Freya laughs and so does Leon.